Done With You D/K fic, part one
...for this Dean/Krycek fic to see the light. It's NOT the type of fic I' ve written before, so please read the info pre warning carefully.
However, i' m pretty happy how I managed to wrap it up. :)
This started as a scene I woke up one day with, printed on my brain. Lu urged me to go on. Beware, it’s pure indulgence of my kink, where Krycek is ruthless, but not heartless, and Dean’s all bluster and cockiness, begging to be broken.
NOTES:
AU.
Timeline: shortly after 2*03 ep Blood Lust. How else would Dean have hooked up with Gordon? Dean's 28 imo.
Krycek is one-armed. Obviously at least one year post Tunguska. I'd recon he is about 35-37 yo.
IMPORTANT Impala did not get hurt in this story. It was Gordon’s car that was blown up.
Rating: R, certainly.
Warnings: interrogation, Hurt!Dean, knife-play, mention of self-harm, but no permanent damage to characters has been incurred.
Summary: Dean busts into the wrong place. Krycek is in charge of interrogation.
Beta: candygramme.
“This guy is the one that all the fuss has been about?” Alex Krycek asked his companion, a sturdy man in his early forties with a neat black beard, dressed in khaki military uniform, and a semi-automatic rifle on his shoulder. Krycek wore his civilian clothes, all practical black with a thick v-necked sweater of the same color and a brown jacket of weather-beaten leather. His handsome features bore a print of mild discontent. He did not like it when emergencies happened at one am, when he was right in the middle of someone.
“Yeah. Isn’t he a sweet boy?”
“I didn’t know you paid such attention.” Krycek muttered under his breath, giving the other man a sideways glance.
The other man leered in reply. “Get off. It’s just he looks… too young for this shit.”
“Appearances can be deceptive, Leon.” Krycek quirked his brow, but Leon apparently did not get the joke.
The captive wore only boots, a sleeveless undershirt and mud-streaked, faded denims. There was a stain of fresh blood spreading through the fabric on the underside of his thigh.
“He came like this?" Krycek inquired. "Almost naked?”
“No. We had to frisk him. Took his jacket and shirts.”
“Found anything interesting?” Krycek stifled a yawn.
Leon passed him a wallet. Krycek took an interested look inside.
Judging by the number of credit cards, this is a very bad case of multiple personality disorder.
“Found anything else? Any clues? IDs?”
Leon shook his head.
“Maybe you will. You’re the pro,” he shrugged.
Krycek did not argue with that.
“Weapons?”
“A Colt 1911. Silver bullets,” Leon stressed succinctly.
Krycek gave him a disbelieving grin. Dial M for Mulder. The G-man would get an honest to god hard-on if he came up against the kind of paranormal events this promised.
“You said there were three of them?” Krycek made himself swallow the grin that just would not leave his face soon enough.
“A black guy, in his 40s and a grizzled older man. Both dead.”
Oh fuck. The idea that dead men tell no tales was not what he'd been hoping for.
“How come?” Frowning, Krycek hunkered down, took a close look at the man on the floor. He might be in his mid- twenties, Krycek could not tell for sure. He touched the side of the captive’s face with his gloved hand, turned his head lightly. The short hairs at the back of his head were matted with mud. Apparently that was had been the point of impact when the man had blacked out. Otherwise, except the younger man's thigh, there was no visible damage Krycek could at once determine. At his touch the man seemed to stir, coming around.
“The alarm went off,” Leon elaborated. “Caught up too late they must have busted the wrong place. They’d have lit out, but missed a two-count at the fence after the laser beam hit.”
Fresh toast.
“Got their weapons?”
“Two shotguns. Loaded with salt. Another gun with silver bullets.”
Now, we have a pattern, not a random hit-and-run.
Something was seriously spooky here. Not the usual “breaking and entering” case, involving drunk farmers who had lost their way or clueless, stoned teens.
“Salt?” Krycek raised his brow. “You’re friggin’ kiddin’me.”
“I shit you not. Crazy, heh?” Leon grinned, displaying row of small, sharp teeth. “This one didn’t make it fast enough to the car, the blast wave threw him off. That’s how we found him. A lucky bastard.” Then as an afterthought he gave Krycek a sideways look, “Relatively lucky.”
Krycek noted the butter up. Leon had just earned himself a point.
The captive opened his eyes just as Krycek was immersed in a close study of his upper body. He noted thin, old scars on the younger man’s chest, and one longer, running from the top of his left shoulder almost to his elbow. Very straight. Very neat.
Immediately aware of the company, the captive tried to speak, the duct tape on his mouth preventing anything but a grunt. His nostrils flared, taking in air. He pulled at the cuffs, testing his bonds. When he tried to move his legs, that were slightly spread - bound as they were at the ankles to the metal rings in the concrete floor - the flex of his thigh made the injury known, and he winced in pain. Then he looked up, noted the rifle Leon was holding, and Krycek’s own handgun in a hip holster, and he went still, squinting, eyes wary in the pale face. He had remarkably expressive eyes, Krycek noted.
“How much time will you need before we report?” Leon looked concerned.
“Depends on how stubborn and smart he is,” Krycek shrugged. The captive’s eyes were trained on him, and he had apparently quickly recognized who was in charge here. It didn't escape Krycek's attention that the young man did not start to thrash around, as might be expected of someone waking up to find himself bound and gagged.
“Give us…some privacy first,” Krycek requested.
Leon left.
Krycek took another second to measure the work in front of him. Times like this, he hated his current job: the guy was a work of art, a feast for his eyes. Though the bend of his legs, especially when restrained, demonstrated a slight defect.
Now… where do I start to do you some damage, pretty freckles?
Krycek sat on his heels next to the younger man, checked how his hands were cuffed behind his back, encircling the concrete base of the wall support. Krycek did not know the captive’s track record, but he always took precautions. The cuffs were not standard police issue. The guy was practically shackled, his wrists encased within two unbending steel lengths. The young man meanwhile was giving him a full body scan as his shoulders flexed with the effort to loosen up the bonds.
“The cuffs are not worth trying to slip from. But you’ll appreciate their comfort later.”
Dark eyes twitched, throat working behind the gag. A strangled noise--between a snarl and a shout-- rose and died in his throat, stopped by the tape.
The captive’s eyes flashed murder while Krycek was peeling the tape off. Krycek’s look lingered on the other man’s face as he ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips, glaring and assessing his persona.
Ain’t we a handsome lippy bastard.
“What’s your name?” Krycek started from the basics, keeping his face and voice impassive.
When all he received was a hard glare, Krycek hooked two fingers into the faux slash of the man’s jeans on his knee and pulled with force, ripping the cloth from the knee up. The younger man jerked, more from surprise than pain.
“You owe me… a new pair,” were his first words. He had a deep, pleasant voice.
Krycek nodded. He took out his Ti-Lite folding knife from his jacket’s inside pocket. The light on the blade was as bright as the spark in the young man’s eye as he glanced at it.
“Peter.” He uttered, his eyes still on the blade poised above his knee, his voice cracking as a dry stick.
“Peter.” Krycek repeated with a satisfied small smirk. His hand did not stop, he put the knife into the newly made slash and made a long tear exposing the other man’s thigh from the knee to the hipbone, so that the dark fabric of his briefs was visible. He pulled at the flap of fabric one-handed, tearing it off completely, paying no attention to his captive’s protestations. He surveyed the deep gash in the flesh: there was a piece of wood sticking out, a piece of sharp, almost two inch thick branch the captive had fallen on.
“So... it’s Peter?” Krycek tapped his fingers on top of the wood.
The other man bit on his lip instead, nodding, trying to maintain a blank face. When Krycek twisted the stick, the other man made a sound as if he was going to throw up, then went stiff, eyes squeezed shut. He seemed to black out for a moment. When he came around, Krycek waited patiently for his eyes to gain focus.
“Best…you can do?” the other man uttered when he found his voice.
“No. Not nearly the best I can do. But it works just fine. So I’ll do it again.” He added calmly, unaffected by the look that quickly turned from anguished into livid. “It’s not worth the pain. It’s just a name.”
When Krycek tightened his fingers, preparing to twist the branch, the other man reacted.
“Dean.” He pushed the word out as a curse.
Krycek let his mouth crease with satisfaction.
“Dean who?”
Dean stared again, defiant.
“Smart, but stubborn,” Krycek knew this type. The most rewarding to break.
When Dean made a confirming grimace, Krycek took hold of the piece of wood and pulled out swiftly, holding Dean’s leg down by his knee. The young man’s head snapped sharply back, hitting the wall as his body bucked and the sound he made was a hoarse sharp cry.
Scream again. I need a reputation to maintain.
While Dean blanched and shuddered with the after effects of pain, Krycek peered closely at the wound. There was dark blood seeping again.
“This time I believe you, Dean,” he took hold of Dean’s chin to look at him more closely; the other man resisted weakly. His lips moved, but obviously he was not in control of his voice just then. If his eyes were guns, though, Krycek would have had a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.
“Now listen. You saw the ‘No Trespassing’ sign? ‘Restricted Area’? You tried to bust into a government facility.”
“And you are… who?” Dean ground through his teeth. His eyes were now fixed on the stiff left sleeve of Krycek’s jacket.
“I’m in charge of security here.”
Dean snorted at that. Apparently he did not consider Krycek as fit to be in charge of anything. Then to stress his point, “I have unlimited authorization when it comes to getting rid of unwanted visitors.”
Dean did not react visibly to the thinly veiled threat, but his whole body was wound tight. Krycek was starting to smell him: the heady waft of fresh fear sweat. The feeling might not yet have made it to Dean’s brain, but his body was already reacting. It made his own blood flow faster, the pulse more pronounced in his throat and fingertips.
“You must tell me the names of the three of you. I’ll run a background check,” he appealed to Dean’s sensibility. “If you really did take a wrong turn hunting or whatever, there is a chance you’ll make it out alive.”
But Alex…silver bullets? Are you letting him go without finding out?
“Yeah, and I believe in Santa Claus.” Dean spat.
In response came a hard and precise clip to the side of his nose. Krycek watched detachedly how the blood started to ooze from the nostrils into Dean’s mouth.
“Listen, dollface. I only bother because this is a serious security breach, might have been a leak from the inside--” Krycek paused, making sure Dean was listening, sniffing loudly, against the discomfort of the steady dribble of blood down his chin. “I would have asked your buddies, but they are dead, blown up together with the car you came in. Need to sniff their fresh bones to believe me?”
Dean did look like he still had a problem believing the obvious, he pulled at his bonds again, ineffectively.
“What kind of place is this?” he muttered. The last color was draining from his face. “There was… just a spooky abandoned warehouse, piles of junk...”
Krycek made an irritated sound in his throat.
“Did you listen to what I’ve said? Governmental property? We are underground. You don’t waltz in here carrying home-made guns. And… why put salt in your shells?”
“Governmental?” Dean perked up, tried to pull out a believable grin, which came out skewed anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to… read me my rights?”
“It’s a secret facility. You don’t have any rights here.” Krycek stated coldly.
Dean did not dignify him with an answer, issuing another contemptuous smirk as if all his words meant shit. This time Krycek could not bring himself to regret the demonstration that, though he had only one arm left, he had learnt to use it to its utmost. A crushing punch was dealt to Dean’s jaw that would have laid him out had he not been cuffed upright. The blow apparently made Dean bite his tongue as he choked on a curse, spitting more blood through his teeth.
“Big bloody hero, are you? For what?” Krycek grated. A couple more such punches would dislocate his jaw. Krycek decided against that for the time being. He needed to make Dean talk, not to shut him up.
Krycek kept his balance perfectly, sitting on his haunches, gripping Dean’s hair where it was the longest, right above his forehead, making the other man buck and glare.
“You wanna join your buddies?”
I’m here to decide whether you will.
It was the bloodied lips that he read, rather than hearing Dean mouth, ‘fuck you!’
Krycek heaved a sigh. At least you tried to reason with him.
Before Dean managed to find his voice, Krycek turned swiftly, pulling Dean’s head back by the hair, his throat arching and exposed. Krycek kept it in a tight grip till Dean started to struggle, trying to break free. His throat moved spastically as he exhaled noisily. Obeying gravity the blood from Dean’s tilted nose started to trickle back into his throat, he started to cough, trying to spit it back.
“Comfy?” Alex whispered hoarsely, sweat breaking on his own forehead from the effort of keeping the younger man in check with only one hand, refusing to give him a reprieve for a single free gulp of air.
I know you want to live.
“Names, now,” Krycek hissed as he let Dean’s hair go just when Dean started to make small, helpless, choking noises. Krycek relocated his grip under Dean’s jaw and squeezing his windpipe hard. Dean spat more blood, some of it onto Krycek’s hand.
There are better ways to die.
“Now--,” Krycek demanded, as he watched Dean still trying to hold back, sinking his teeth deep into already bloodied lips. “--or I’ll put that stick back where it came from!”
“Win… chester,” Dean articulated, his face red, veins standing out thickly on his temples and under his jawbone. Krycek released his throat a little at that, letting him speak. Dean dropped his head, trying to find his breath, spitting more blood and words, “Gordon… Brown. And… Lyle.”
“Lyle what?”
“I… don’t know. Was all…Gordon told me.” Dean’s eyes watered in useless outrage as he confessed. “He gave us the lead. It’s true!”
“Good enough.” Krycek immediately let Dean go, wiped his bloodied hand on the fabric of Dean’s tee, then stood up… looked around. Then he stooped down again, reaching out to undo Dean’s belt, watching Dean watch him with wide eyes, alarmed. His breath was hitching.
Krycek wrapped the belt across Dean’s hip, right above the seeping wound, deftly made a loop and pulled the buckle tight to create a makeshift tourniquet. When he was done, the trickle had almost stopped, showing just an ugly gash in the flesh. Then he picked up his knife again, slashing Dean’s undershirt in the middle and ripping off a good half of it. Krycek noted to himself the slim chest with the light arrow of hair below Dean’s navel. He’d also gotten nice muscle carved into his lean chest. Krycek could tell it was muscle cut from necessity, rather than sculpted in a gym. He had to order himself to refocus. Folding the fabric into a bandage, he arranged the clean cloth on Dean’s wound and tucked the loose ends under the belt loop. Dean watched every move of his ministrations.
Watch and learn, boy. So far, so fast.
“That’s… touching,” Dean uttered as he surveyed the result. His nose and mouth were a bloody mess, standing out in contrast with the pale skin of his chest. The pain had tightened his voice to a hiss.
“I might still need you for later.” Krycek stood up swiftly, tucked his knife into his pocket and left the room.
/tbc
Here is the blade Krycek has: https://www.coldsteel.com/6-ti-lite-zy-ex/. Check it out, it' s as sexy as a knife can be!
Well, I hope I've stirred your blood a little up. Krycek's just warming up...not that Dean would make it easy for him. ;)
Thank you for reading. You guys are everything to me and my muse.
ON TO PART TWO...
However, i' m pretty happy how I managed to wrap it up. :)
This started as a scene I woke up one day with, printed on my brain. Lu urged me to go on. Beware, it’s pure indulgence of my kink, where Krycek is ruthless, but not heartless, and Dean’s all bluster and cockiness, begging to be broken.
NOTES:
AU.
Timeline: shortly after 2*03 ep Blood Lust. How else would Dean have hooked up with Gordon? Dean's 28 imo.
Krycek is one-armed. Obviously at least one year post Tunguska. I'd recon he is about 35-37 yo.
IMPORTANT Impala did not get hurt in this story. It was Gordon’s car that was blown up.
Rating: R, certainly.
Warnings: interrogation, Hurt!Dean, knife-play, mention of self-harm, but no permanent damage to characters has been incurred.
Summary: Dean busts into the wrong place. Krycek is in charge of interrogation.
Beta: candygramme.
“This guy is the one that all the fuss has been about?” Alex Krycek asked his companion, a sturdy man in his early forties with a neat black beard, dressed in khaki military uniform, and a semi-automatic rifle on his shoulder. Krycek wore his civilian clothes, all practical black with a thick v-necked sweater of the same color and a brown jacket of weather-beaten leather. His handsome features bore a print of mild discontent. He did not like it when emergencies happened at one am, when he was right in the middle of someone.
“Yeah. Isn’t he a sweet boy?”
“I didn’t know you paid such attention.” Krycek muttered under his breath, giving the other man a sideways glance.
The other man leered in reply. “Get off. It’s just he looks… too young for this shit.”
“Appearances can be deceptive, Leon.” Krycek quirked his brow, but Leon apparently did not get the joke.
The captive wore only boots, a sleeveless undershirt and mud-streaked, faded denims. There was a stain of fresh blood spreading through the fabric on the underside of his thigh.
“He came like this?" Krycek inquired. "Almost naked?”
“No. We had to frisk him. Took his jacket and shirts.”
“Found anything interesting?” Krycek stifled a yawn.
Leon passed him a wallet. Krycek took an interested look inside.
Judging by the number of credit cards, this is a very bad case of multiple personality disorder.
“Found anything else? Any clues? IDs?”
Leon shook his head.
“Maybe you will. You’re the pro,” he shrugged.
Krycek did not argue with that.
“Weapons?”
“A Colt 1911. Silver bullets,” Leon stressed succinctly.
Krycek gave him a disbelieving grin. Dial M for Mulder. The G-man would get an honest to god hard-on if he came up against the kind of paranormal events this promised.
“You said there were three of them?” Krycek made himself swallow the grin that just would not leave his face soon enough.
“A black guy, in his 40s and a grizzled older man. Both dead.”
Oh fuck. The idea that dead men tell no tales was not what he'd been hoping for.
“How come?” Frowning, Krycek hunkered down, took a close look at the man on the floor. He might be in his mid- twenties, Krycek could not tell for sure. He touched the side of the captive’s face with his gloved hand, turned his head lightly. The short hairs at the back of his head were matted with mud. Apparently that was had been the point of impact when the man had blacked out. Otherwise, except the younger man's thigh, there was no visible damage Krycek could at once determine. At his touch the man seemed to stir, coming around.
“The alarm went off,” Leon elaborated. “Caught up too late they must have busted the wrong place. They’d have lit out, but missed a two-count at the fence after the laser beam hit.”
Fresh toast.
“Got their weapons?”
“Two shotguns. Loaded with salt. Another gun with silver bullets.”
Now, we have a pattern, not a random hit-and-run.
Something was seriously spooky here. Not the usual “breaking and entering” case, involving drunk farmers who had lost their way or clueless, stoned teens.
“Salt?” Krycek raised his brow. “You’re friggin’ kiddin’me.”
“I shit you not. Crazy, heh?” Leon grinned, displaying row of small, sharp teeth. “This one didn’t make it fast enough to the car, the blast wave threw him off. That’s how we found him. A lucky bastard.” Then as an afterthought he gave Krycek a sideways look, “Relatively lucky.”
Krycek noted the butter up. Leon had just earned himself a point.
The captive opened his eyes just as Krycek was immersed in a close study of his upper body. He noted thin, old scars on the younger man’s chest, and one longer, running from the top of his left shoulder almost to his elbow. Very straight. Very neat.
Immediately aware of the company, the captive tried to speak, the duct tape on his mouth preventing anything but a grunt. His nostrils flared, taking in air. He pulled at the cuffs, testing his bonds. When he tried to move his legs, that were slightly spread - bound as they were at the ankles to the metal rings in the concrete floor - the flex of his thigh made the injury known, and he winced in pain. Then he looked up, noted the rifle Leon was holding, and Krycek’s own handgun in a hip holster, and he went still, squinting, eyes wary in the pale face. He had remarkably expressive eyes, Krycek noted.
“How much time will you need before we report?” Leon looked concerned.
“Depends on how stubborn and smart he is,” Krycek shrugged. The captive’s eyes were trained on him, and he had apparently quickly recognized who was in charge here. It didn't escape Krycek's attention that the young man did not start to thrash around, as might be expected of someone waking up to find himself bound and gagged.
“Give us…some privacy first,” Krycek requested.
Leon left.
Krycek took another second to measure the work in front of him. Times like this, he hated his current job: the guy was a work of art, a feast for his eyes. Though the bend of his legs, especially when restrained, demonstrated a slight defect.
Now… where do I start to do you some damage, pretty freckles?
Krycek sat on his heels next to the younger man, checked how his hands were cuffed behind his back, encircling the concrete base of the wall support. Krycek did not know the captive’s track record, but he always took precautions. The cuffs were not standard police issue. The guy was practically shackled, his wrists encased within two unbending steel lengths. The young man meanwhile was giving him a full body scan as his shoulders flexed with the effort to loosen up the bonds.
“The cuffs are not worth trying to slip from. But you’ll appreciate their comfort later.”
Dark eyes twitched, throat working behind the gag. A strangled noise--between a snarl and a shout-- rose and died in his throat, stopped by the tape.
The captive’s eyes flashed murder while Krycek was peeling the tape off. Krycek’s look lingered on the other man’s face as he ran the tip of his tongue over his dry lips, glaring and assessing his persona.
Ain’t we a handsome lippy bastard.
“What’s your name?” Krycek started from the basics, keeping his face and voice impassive.
When all he received was a hard glare, Krycek hooked two fingers into the faux slash of the man’s jeans on his knee and pulled with force, ripping the cloth from the knee up. The younger man jerked, more from surprise than pain.
“You owe me… a new pair,” were his first words. He had a deep, pleasant voice.
Krycek nodded. He took out his Ti-Lite folding knife from his jacket’s inside pocket. The light on the blade was as bright as the spark in the young man’s eye as he glanced at it.
“Peter.” He uttered, his eyes still on the blade poised above his knee, his voice cracking as a dry stick.
“Peter.” Krycek repeated with a satisfied small smirk. His hand did not stop, he put the knife into the newly made slash and made a long tear exposing the other man’s thigh from the knee to the hipbone, so that the dark fabric of his briefs was visible. He pulled at the flap of fabric one-handed, tearing it off completely, paying no attention to his captive’s protestations. He surveyed the deep gash in the flesh: there was a piece of wood sticking out, a piece of sharp, almost two inch thick branch the captive had fallen on.
“So... it’s Peter?” Krycek tapped his fingers on top of the wood.
The other man bit on his lip instead, nodding, trying to maintain a blank face. When Krycek twisted the stick, the other man made a sound as if he was going to throw up, then went stiff, eyes squeezed shut. He seemed to black out for a moment. When he came around, Krycek waited patiently for his eyes to gain focus.
“Best…you can do?” the other man uttered when he found his voice.
“No. Not nearly the best I can do. But it works just fine. So I’ll do it again.” He added calmly, unaffected by the look that quickly turned from anguished into livid. “It’s not worth the pain. It’s just a name.”
When Krycek tightened his fingers, preparing to twist the branch, the other man reacted.
“Dean.” He pushed the word out as a curse.
Krycek let his mouth crease with satisfaction.
“Dean who?”
Dean stared again, defiant.
“Smart, but stubborn,” Krycek knew this type. The most rewarding to break.
When Dean made a confirming grimace, Krycek took hold of the piece of wood and pulled out swiftly, holding Dean’s leg down by his knee. The young man’s head snapped sharply back, hitting the wall as his body bucked and the sound he made was a hoarse sharp cry.
Scream again. I need a reputation to maintain.
While Dean blanched and shuddered with the after effects of pain, Krycek peered closely at the wound. There was dark blood seeping again.
“This time I believe you, Dean,” he took hold of Dean’s chin to look at him more closely; the other man resisted weakly. His lips moved, but obviously he was not in control of his voice just then. If his eyes were guns, though, Krycek would have had a neat bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.
“Now listen. You saw the ‘No Trespassing’ sign? ‘Restricted Area’? You tried to bust into a government facility.”
“And you are… who?” Dean ground through his teeth. His eyes were now fixed on the stiff left sleeve of Krycek’s jacket.
“I’m in charge of security here.”
Dean snorted at that. Apparently he did not consider Krycek as fit to be in charge of anything. Then to stress his point, “I have unlimited authorization when it comes to getting rid of unwanted visitors.”
Dean did not react visibly to the thinly veiled threat, but his whole body was wound tight. Krycek was starting to smell him: the heady waft of fresh fear sweat. The feeling might not yet have made it to Dean’s brain, but his body was already reacting. It made his own blood flow faster, the pulse more pronounced in his throat and fingertips.
“You must tell me the names of the three of you. I’ll run a background check,” he appealed to Dean’s sensibility. “If you really did take a wrong turn hunting or whatever, there is a chance you’ll make it out alive.”
But Alex…silver bullets? Are you letting him go without finding out?
“Yeah, and I believe in Santa Claus.” Dean spat.
In response came a hard and precise clip to the side of his nose. Krycek watched detachedly how the blood started to ooze from the nostrils into Dean’s mouth.
“Listen, dollface. I only bother because this is a serious security breach, might have been a leak from the inside--” Krycek paused, making sure Dean was listening, sniffing loudly, against the discomfort of the steady dribble of blood down his chin. “I would have asked your buddies, but they are dead, blown up together with the car you came in. Need to sniff their fresh bones to believe me?”
Dean did look like he still had a problem believing the obvious, he pulled at his bonds again, ineffectively.
“What kind of place is this?” he muttered. The last color was draining from his face. “There was… just a spooky abandoned warehouse, piles of junk...”
Krycek made an irritated sound in his throat.
“Did you listen to what I’ve said? Governmental property? We are underground. You don’t waltz in here carrying home-made guns. And… why put salt in your shells?”
“Governmental?” Dean perked up, tried to pull out a believable grin, which came out skewed anyway. “Aren’t you supposed to… read me my rights?”
“It’s a secret facility. You don’t have any rights here.” Krycek stated coldly.
Dean did not dignify him with an answer, issuing another contemptuous smirk as if all his words meant shit. This time Krycek could not bring himself to regret the demonstration that, though he had only one arm left, he had learnt to use it to its utmost. A crushing punch was dealt to Dean’s jaw that would have laid him out had he not been cuffed upright. The blow apparently made Dean bite his tongue as he choked on a curse, spitting more blood through his teeth.
“Big bloody hero, are you? For what?” Krycek grated. A couple more such punches would dislocate his jaw. Krycek decided against that for the time being. He needed to make Dean talk, not to shut him up.
Krycek kept his balance perfectly, sitting on his haunches, gripping Dean’s hair where it was the longest, right above his forehead, making the other man buck and glare.
“You wanna join your buddies?”
I’m here to decide whether you will.
It was the bloodied lips that he read, rather than hearing Dean mouth, ‘fuck you!’
Krycek heaved a sigh. At least you tried to reason with him.
Before Dean managed to find his voice, Krycek turned swiftly, pulling Dean’s head back by the hair, his throat arching and exposed. Krycek kept it in a tight grip till Dean started to struggle, trying to break free. His throat moved spastically as he exhaled noisily. Obeying gravity the blood from Dean’s tilted nose started to trickle back into his throat, he started to cough, trying to spit it back.
“Comfy?” Alex whispered hoarsely, sweat breaking on his own forehead from the effort of keeping the younger man in check with only one hand, refusing to give him a reprieve for a single free gulp of air.
I know you want to live.
“Names, now,” Krycek hissed as he let Dean’s hair go just when Dean started to make small, helpless, choking noises. Krycek relocated his grip under Dean’s jaw and squeezing his windpipe hard. Dean spat more blood, some of it onto Krycek’s hand.
There are better ways to die.
“Now--,” Krycek demanded, as he watched Dean still trying to hold back, sinking his teeth deep into already bloodied lips. “--or I’ll put that stick back where it came from!”
“Win… chester,” Dean articulated, his face red, veins standing out thickly on his temples and under his jawbone. Krycek released his throat a little at that, letting him speak. Dean dropped his head, trying to find his breath, spitting more blood and words, “Gordon… Brown. And… Lyle.”
“Lyle what?”
“I… don’t know. Was all…Gordon told me.” Dean’s eyes watered in useless outrage as he confessed. “He gave us the lead. It’s true!”
“Good enough.” Krycek immediately let Dean go, wiped his bloodied hand on the fabric of Dean’s tee, then stood up… looked around. Then he stooped down again, reaching out to undo Dean’s belt, watching Dean watch him with wide eyes, alarmed. His breath was hitching.
Krycek wrapped the belt across Dean’s hip, right above the seeping wound, deftly made a loop and pulled the buckle tight to create a makeshift tourniquet. When he was done, the trickle had almost stopped, showing just an ugly gash in the flesh. Then he picked up his knife again, slashing Dean’s undershirt in the middle and ripping off a good half of it. Krycek noted to himself the slim chest with the light arrow of hair below Dean’s navel. He’d also gotten nice muscle carved into his lean chest. Krycek could tell it was muscle cut from necessity, rather than sculpted in a gym. He had to order himself to refocus. Folding the fabric into a bandage, he arranged the clean cloth on Dean’s wound and tucked the loose ends under the belt loop. Dean watched every move of his ministrations.
Watch and learn, boy. So far, so fast.
“That’s… touching,” Dean uttered as he surveyed the result. His nose and mouth were a bloody mess, standing out in contrast with the pale skin of his chest. The pain had tightened his voice to a hiss.
“I might still need you for later.” Krycek stood up swiftly, tucked his knife into his pocket and left the room.
/tbc
Here is the blade Krycek has: https://www.coldsteel.com/6-ti-lite-zy-ex/. Check it out, it' s as sexy as a knife can be!
Well, I hope I've stirred your blood a little up. Krycek's just warming up...not that Dean would make it easy for him. ;)
Thank you for reading. You guys are everything to me and my muse.
ON TO PART TWO...